


kiss me once, then kiss me twice (then kiss me once again)

by spacenarwhal



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Marriage, Misogyny, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wears her blue suit on her wedding day. </p><p>Peggy and Steve, after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss me once, then kiss me twice (then kiss me once again)

**Author's Note:**

> 5,000 plus words of self indulgent Peggy/Steve fluff. These kids just fill me with so many feelings.

She wears her blue suit on her wedding day. 

There had been a time, years ago, when she thought she would wear her mother’s wedding dress, before age changed her mind and a bombing took the option from her entirely. It had been a beautiful dress, tiers of satin and chiffon draped elegantly over one another, champagne colored and silky smooth beneath Peggy’s awe-struck child hands. It hurts now to think she ever considered it antiquated, when it had once been the loveliest thing she could ever imagine wearing. 

Her blue suit is a sensible choice, perfectly pressed. _Something blue_ , she thinks wryly, inspecting her reflection in the mirror (if she pays a touch more attention than usual to her hair and makeup, Peggy thinks it’s only acceptable. After all, she has no intention of doing this again). 

Steve cuts an impressive figure in his dress uniform, but his smile is magnificent when he catches sight of her on the steps of City Hall, Peggy almost can’t bear to look at him. He stares at her like she’s the loveliest thing he’s ever seen and Peggy flushes pink under the attention, fingers carefully at her pinned hair in an effort keep her composure. They’d spent the night apart, honored the antiquated tradition though Steve had insisted that there wouldn’t be any room for bad luck. Though they hardly spend every night together she’d missed having him there, and it’s no small thrill that shoots her when she remembers they won’t be apart again. 

Steve offers her a small bouquet of pink and white flowers she doesn’t know by name, but they’re lovely, and Peggy’s heart pulses in her throat for a threatening second where she fears her makeup will be ruined. But she preserves, touches her fingertip to one of the pink petals, and thanks him with a kiss. He laughs while she rubs lipstick off his mouth, the edge of his teeth grazing the ball of her thumb when he smiles.

“Not my color?” He asks innocently and Peggy swats at him with her flowers. They’re first night out he’d bought her a rose from a vendor at the club, blushing almost as red as the flower the whole while. She still has it, pressed between the pages of one of her father’s history books she keeps among her belongings. 

They marry in a quiet office, the officiant openly star struck by the groom. General Philips stands as their witness (Howard sent his apologies and a bottle of champagne the day before, and Peggy might just be foolish enough to believe his contrition at missing their wedding). 

“You two have been pains in my ass from the word go. You deserve each other.” Philips grouses but there’s no real vexation in his voice. He treats them each to a gruff smile, shakes Steve’s hand with a clap to the shoulder, kisses Peggy’s cheek and wishes them both the best with his usual brusqueness.

It would have been easy to arrange something grander, with more fanfare and prestige. Howard offered them one of his many properties in the city, swore he could get them the Plaza in June if they only said the word. There had been nearly a dozen articles in Everywoman’s magazine when news of their engagement had broken. Speculation over possible venues and the guest list and what would be worn. They had each laughed themselves breathless at the notion of Steve dressing as Captain America for the service, squeezed hip to hip on the too narrow bedframe in his apartment. 

(There have been less forgiving articles written. Questions about whether marrying her was purely a matter of sending the right political message, public discussions about whether she ought to dedicate herself to the home after the wedding, and seemingly endless conjecture about what it was like to love a living legend). 

She doesn’t need any of that. Years of discipline have taught Peggy how to differentiate the essential from the superfluous, and while there are plenty of things she’s grateful to have back—the simple pleasures of sugar in her coffee and new stockings—now that the war is over, she knows she can survive without them.

She can survive without Steve too, and there’s something reassuring to knowing that for the fact that it is. It means Peggy can choose him for herself, not a missing piece of her but a complementary one. Her partner. 

The officiant pronounces them husband and wife and Steve wraps his arms around her, hoists her clean off the floor and Peggy allows herself a moment of wild abandon, throws her arms around his shoulders as he squeezes her tight. Her make up doesn’t survive the ensuing onslaught but Peggy is far beyond caring. 

-

Their honeymoon is interpreted hours before it even begins. A threat to national security according to the call that comes through from the SSR. They both respond. 

He spends their first two days as a marriage somewhere in Austria while she presides at a base camp, arguing with the brass about transportation for their soldiers. 

When he finally does return he’s mud splattered and weary, hair dark with sweat and mussed from his helmet, but he grins at her when she tells him they’ll be airborne by tomorrow morning, “Good job today Agent Carter.” He says warmly and Peggy gives him a quick nod, tries to keep her face straight. It’s all in a day’s work.

All their attempts at keeping a low profile go to waste as soon as they join the others for their evening meal. Dugan toasts to their health with his newly acquired bourbon. Hoots and whistles following them into their tent for the night. 

They stretch out on their respective camp beds, under old wool blankets that smell a bit of mildew. “Not exactly the romantic getaway I was looking forward to.” Steve says, a little ruefully, hands tucked behind his head. 

The meager three feet between their camp beds are freezing, the metal frame groans horribly when she throws herself over him, wool blanket and all. Steve is a living furnace beneath her and they wiggle until she’s beneath his blanket as well. His hands fold heavy over her back, and it isn’t exactly comfortable but she’s known worse. “We’ve done alright.” She says sleepily, and Steve hums softly at the back of his throat. She falls asleep with his heart beating steadily under her ear. 

-

When they finally do make it to Niagara Falls the weather is terrible. It rains the entire week they’re there. It’s no inconvenience their first days there. They discovered they’d been upgraded to a suite upon check-in, had enjoyed a private dinner for two in their room and made the most of the ridiculously oversized bathtub. Steve insists on carrying her to the bed, and what a lovely bed it is, soft and warm and smelling of lavender. They make love—because that’s what it feels like with Steve, no matter how much of a love struck fool it makes her feel whenever she thinks it—and Steve never seems to run out of ways to tell her he loves her. He sighs it against her mouth and whispers it to her collarbone and kisses it into the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. 

It feels as though they’ll never have enough of each other but the closer they get to returning to New York City the more they realize they haven’t seen much outside their hotel room. They brave the rain flooded streets, wander between shops under the umbrella he insists on holding over their heads even if he is too broad for it to cover them both properly. 

They take a ferry out to see the falls up close, stand on the deck and look up until it doesn’t matter if it’s rainwater or not that’s trickling down their necks. He presses close against her back. “Bucky always wanted to come here,” Steve says lightly, words almost blown away on the wind, “Said he’d stick me in a barrel since I was always making dumb decisions anyway. Thought he’d save me the time.” He drops his chin to the top of her head, chest expanding against her back with a sigh. There will likely always be a melancholy air about him when he talks about James. She leans back into him, looks up at the wall of frothing water, the grey sky above it, the rain falling in heavy sheets around them. The wind sprays icy mist against her face, reminds Peggy of too many winters spent in barracks and tents, mortar shells going off in the distance (some days it feels like the war lingers everywhere). 

Steve’s arms tighten around her when she shivers.

-

They find a small apartment in Brooklyn. It isn’t Steve’s old neighborhood but he said there wasn’t much reason to go back there. “Things are different now. Can’t go chasing the past.” He shrugs his shoulders, his smile small and pensive as he opens boxes. Most of their things are new. Neither of them had more than a suitcase or two of things to their name when they moved. Soldier’s habits are hard to break. 

They bicker over how to assemble the bed and Steve manages to break their sole screwdriver trying to fit the frame together. 

“Well at least the mattress still works.” Peggy muses, not bothering to sound anything other than sarcastic as she throws it down in the middle of their sparse bedroom, “Try not to break it, dear.”

His eyebrow rises suggestively. “That a challenge?”

It’s easy to forget their disagreements when he’s looking at her like that, his hands heavy on her waist, pulling her across the mattress. It won’t always work like this she thinks, but it’s difficult to be overly put out about it when she’s pushing his shirt off his shoulders and he’s dropping to his knees on the mattress, the springs squeaking in surprise beneath him.

(They don’t break the mattress but Peggy makes a note to avoid the downstairs neighbors for a good long while.)

-

On Sunday neither of them bothers with the kitchen. They’re not very good at it as it is, but they’re both incredibly well versed in eating the nearly inedible. “Sunday is a day of rest.” Peggy announced one Sunday early on, and that was all it really took for Steve to follow along to a local diner. 

“Your fella can sure pack it away.” The waitress chuckles as she deposits Steve’s third plate of roast beef at their table. 

“That’s why we only do this on Sundays. We wouldn’t be able to make rent on our salaries if we ate out more frequently.”

Steve pulls a face at her, nudges her ankle with the toe of his shoe under the table. “We could skip the pie and get desert at home.” He grins and looks at her like he’s finished undressing her already. 

Peggy refuses to blush. On principle. “That was truly terrible Steve.” She says calmly, and takes a long drink of coffee.

-

_“And now it's time for "The Captain America Adventure Program," brought to you by Roxxon motor oil. Tonight's thrilling tale takes us deep into the heart of the Ardennes Forest, where Hitler's Nazi guard have ambushed the 107th Infantry and taken Betty Carver, the battalion's beautiful triage nurse as their hostage—”_

Steve clicks the wireless to a different station with a flick of his wrist. Peggy chuckles, swings her legs a bit, knock her heels against the cabinet. Steve fixes her with a stern look, goes back to rinsing soap off their dinner dishes. 

“You would have made a terrible nurse.” He says, handing her another plate to dry. 

Peggy shrugs her shoulder nonchalantly. “Well, it’s not my fault I’ve always been better at putting bullets in, not taking them out.” Peggy sets the dry dish down beside her on the countertop, looks back up at him.

Steve nods, “Yeah I remember.” 

Peggy rolls her eyes. “Please, it’s not as though I actually shot you.”

Steve hands her another plate. “Good thing Howard knows how to make a shield.”

-

She has the habit of falling asleep everywhere. It was one that paid off during the war, when she could rest her head on a table or sit up straight in a chair and doze for a few minutes between meetings. Now she falls asleep on the sofa or at the dining table, wakes to his hand on her shoulder more often than not, though sometimes she’ll sleep through that too, wake held securely against his chest or as he’s depositing her on the bed. “I’m very capable of putting myself to bed Steve.” She chides more than once and Steve smiles sheepishly. “Maybe I like taking care of you.” 

(Some nights he can’t sleep and while he hasn’t yet told her what it is keeping him awake, he lets her crowd close, let her drape her arm over him and neither of them says anything at all.) 

She can understand that.

-

She’s not surprised when it happens, but it hurts regardless. The day comes when he’s sent out and she’s left behind a desk. It happens slowly, over weeks and months, her time in the field shrinking until its non-existent.

At the office men tip their hats to her, speak to her civilly before dismissing her without a second glance. Their wives send countless invitations for dinner. 

“Mrs. Rogers.” Director Dooley greets her in the elevator every morning, and Peggy tightens her grip on her briefcase, straightens her shoulders, and smiles to keep from reminding him that her name is still Carter. 

-

“Your fella out of town again?” Angie, the waitress from the diner they frequent on Sundays, asks when Peggy takes a seat at the counter.

They’re on a first name basis after a month of Steve away. Angie is funny and sweet and she’s never made any mention about who it is Peggy shares a table with. 

Angie pours her a cup of coffee, slides a menu towards her with a fortifying grin. “Well cheer up English, I know I can’t be that hard on the eyes.”

Peggy smiles, “Not at all. I think—” It’s not really a matter of what she thinks. What she knows is that the apartment never feels so big as when he’s gone and her neck hurts from too many night spent on the sofa and that some days she finds herself wondering over solitary dinners if this is what her life would have become if he’d flown the plane into the Atlantic that day. If it would have become this series of lonely days, spent waiting for him to come back. “I may just be tired of missing him.” 

Angie makes a commiserating noise, “I don’t know much about being married myself but I do know there’s only two cures for a lonely heart. That’s pie and schnapps. Unfortunately for now I can only get you one. But once my shift is done I’ll take you somewhere we can get the other.”

Peggy looks up from her coffee, heat rising in her face, “Oh that’s really not necessary—”

“Hey,” Angie holds up an authoritative palm, “A girl never passes up the opportunity to pick a friend up when she’s down in the dumps.” There’s something so utterly no-nonsense about Angie that makes denying her difficult and Peggy sees no reasons to rush home to an empty apartment. 

“Alright, but the first round is on me.”

“First round? Now you’re talking, English.”

-

Summer in New York is by far the hardest thing she’s ever had to grow accustomed to, the humidity makes her hair hang limp and her make up smudge. She sunburns horribly, though Steve solemnly promises he won’t laugh if she goes red as a freshly boiled crab moments before cajoling her outside with him before the sun’s even begun to set. 

For his birthday they set up shop on the roof of the apartment building. He’d turned down half a dozen invitations in favor of it, said he was more than old enough to spend his birthday however he liked. “And all I want is to spend some time with my wife.”

He grills an insane amount of meat, invites just about everyone in the building to share. The Romeros from 6D bring up a chilled watermelon, the Castellos provide beer, their banquet only growing with every new arrival.

The temperature barely drops after sunset, but there are mismatched chairs scattered across the roof, and someone, perhaps Ms. Hoffman, has brought up coffee. By the time Peggy’s come back from their apartment with the cake she had made for him there’s a throng of neighbors amassed to wish him a happy birthday. 

“Make a wish.” She says, holding the cake level with his face while he stares down twenty-nine flickering candles. 

The first of the evening’s fireworks whizzes up into the air at a distance as he blows his candles out. 

-

She takes bullet to the shoulder on an otherwise nondescript day in October. Thompson and his partner have brought in a suspect for questioning and Peggy has the honor of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dooley chews Thompson out for being careless with his weapon, for not properly securing his suspect while Sousa ruins his jacket, pressing it over her bleeding shoulder. He doesn’t say it’s going to be alright or tell her to remain calm or anything quiet so trite, which she appreciates enormously. “All this excitement over a signature.” Peggy jokes weakly, hunched over with pain, her favorite blouse ruined, and Daniel gives her a weak grin, presses his jacket down harder to staunch the bleeding. 

Steve’s already at the hospital by the time she’s brought in, pacing the waiting room, though he catches up quickly with the medics wheeling her in. “What happened?” He asked, and he isn’t the doting romantic she’s become accustomed to in their quiet moments, or the wise cracking spitfire who pushes her to do better, or even the headstrong idiot who disobeys orders for the greater good. He’s the man she found in the burned out ruins of a tavern, loss so clearly written across his face that it broke her heart to see it. 

The doctors don’t allow him any further and she gives over to the disorientation of blood loss and adrenaline and pain killers and floats somewhere dark and muffled for what feels like an eternity. 

When she opens her eyes again Steve is sitting at her bedside, head resting in his palms. Her tongue is heavy behind her teeth when she tries to say his name, but she still manages to get his attention. 

When he takes her hand it’s with the utmost care, like it’ll break if he’s anything less than careful. His face crumbles when she tries to smile at him, his hold tightening. “Peggy—”

His lips brush her knuckles, his cheek damp when he rests it against the back of her hand.

-

She hadn’t truly realized how often he was gone until suddenly he isn’t. She wakes up next to him in the morning and falls asleep next to him at night (and wakes at odd hours when he gets out of bed, listens to him pace the apartment, falls back to sleep to the sounds of him there). He accompanies her to the doctors for every follow up appointment and through her physical therapy sessions, holds her shirts for her in the morning so she can slip them on, fingers quick over the buttons with a deftness she’s become familiar with. 

He’s there and he’s there and he’s there and Peggy thinks she must be mad, how it rankles her when he insists on being there for everything, hailing her cabs in the morning and waiting for her by her desk in the office though his office is five floors up. 

It comes to a head the morning he comes back from a run to find her balanced on a chair trying to get a canister out of the cupboard. 

“I’ll get it Peg.” He says, rushing over and reaching over her to grab the canister. 

“I can get it myself, thank you.” She bites out forcefully, yanking the canister out of his reach. His face twists with confusion, but he offers her his hand to help her down. 

“I know you can—” He starts, shoulders tight and jaw defensive, “I’m just trying to help.”

She sets the canister down on the counter with more force than she intended, presses her lips tight to keep from snapping something she might later regret. She breathes deep. Her shoulder aches. 

“I think you’ve helped me quite enough already.” She says, the words escaping before she can catch hold of them. 

Steve flushes pink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Peggy shrugs, weeks of irritation giving way before months of frustration. Her mother always used to say she was too hot-headed for her own good. “Nothing…”

She abandons the canister on the counter, goes to leave the room. “It really isn’t nothing if it’s got you this upset.” Steve says, falling behind her, because of course he tries to follow. 

“If I’m upset it’s because you’ve taken it upon yourself to act as my personal shadow. You’re my husband Steve not my nanny.” She yanks her house coat off, tosses it on the bed, with a bitten off snarl. “I spend enough of my time trying to step out from behind you without you physically dogging my every step.”

Steve goes still in the doorway, ears red, “Trying to make sure you don’t push yourself too hard doesn’t make me your nanny—”

“And now you’re better equipped to tell me my own limits?”

“No! I’m not—I’m not looking for a fight here Peggy. I—you got shot. Shot. Middle of the day in Manhattan in an office building full of SSR agents. I was shaking hands with a room full of generals across the city and you were getting shot.” He looks so lost, as lost as he did in the hospital, and Peggy wants to comfort him, but the anger is still there, brittle and pressing up beneath her skin. “Yes. I was shot. I’ve been shot before, you know. Twice. I’m not a fan of it myself.”

He clenches his jaw. “This isn’t a joke Peggy.”

“And I’m not laughing.” Her hands curl into fists, her nails dig into her palms, “I refuse to be treated like some kind of damsel only fit for the fainting couch, especially not in my own home.” Her face burns. “I always believed you of all people saw me as more than that.”

He opens his mouth but Peggy’s had enough, turns on her heel and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door even as he calls her name. 

-

She sits in the bath long after the water’s gone cold, her fingers and toes wrinkled and paled.

“Peg?” He knocks on the door, knuckles soft against the wooden panel, and she doesn’t know how to answer. A part of her wants to hold on to the anger that pushed her forward before, but there’s another part of her that’s tired, worn down from too many months of feeling purposeless and displaced at the office. She doesn’t want to feel like that here. Not with him. 

“Yes.” Her voice shakes more than she’d like when she answers. 

“Can I come in?”

She nods mutely before she remembers to speak, sitting a little taller in the tub as he slowly pushes the door open. His hair is sticking up in a hundred directions, eyes too serious, mouth a carefully composed line better fit for a war room than their bathroom. “We still fighting?” He asks neutrally, one hand still gripping the doorknob tight.

Peggy shakes her head. Some of the tension rolls out of Steve’s shoulders and he crosses the threshold completely, leaves the door open behind him. 

He takes a seat on the floor besides the tub with a tired exhale. “You are one of the most incredible people I have ever met. And I’m sorry if I haven’t done a good enough job of letting you know that.” 

Peggy’s mouth twists ruefully, “You don’t owe me an apology Steve. I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you. You’re not really who I’m upset with.”

He touches her shoulder with careful fingertips, toys with a piece of hair that’s fallen free of the twist at the back of her head. “You were at least a little bit upset with me.”

She chuckles mirthlessly, “Can’t get anything by you, can I?”

Steve gives a little shrug, “I keep telling you I’m more than my good looks.” When she laughs it’s realer, hurts less inside her throat.

“I’m sorry anyway,” Steve says in the quiet that follow, “I just…I thought I was gonna lose you too.”

“Always so dramatic Steve.” She chides softly, but her heart beats hard inside her chest, blood rushing painfully throughout her body. 

He drops his eyes, watches his fingers twirl her hair in a ring, “I didn’t mean to smother you. I know what it’s like when it feels like no one thinks you can take care of yourself. I never meant to do that to you. But…do you think you can meet me halfway here Peg. I can’t be in the dark about this, not when it’s tearing you inside.”

His eyes flick back to her face, steady in their resolve. 

“I just—” She looks down at her pruning hands. Her nails look odd, soft and almost translucent. Steve helped her remove the chipping nail polish weeks ago and she hadn’t made an effort to paint them again yet. He would probably help her do that too if she asked. He might even be good at it. He’s got an artist’s eye after all.

“During the war I had a purpose. I was needed. And there might have been—well, there were most definitely those who didn’t agree with my involvement but it didn’t matter what they thought, I was there regardless. Now…I’m an afterthought. An unnecessary accessory kept around out of some misplaced sense of…I don’t know what. I’m in the room where everything happens but I’m not allowed to do any of it. What’s worse, I don’t think any of them actually expect me to. All they see when they look at me is your wife.”

Her voice breaks over the vowel of the final word, and she hates herself for it. “Peggy why didn’t you say…”

She shakes her head, wipes at her face impatiently, “Don’t. I meant it when I said I was capable of fighting my own battles. I don’t need Captain America to defend my honor.” 

His smile is softer when it comes. “You think I don’t know that? First time I ever saw you you laid a guy out. Pretty sure I’ve been terrified of you ever since.” Peggy turns towards him a little more fully, rests her chin on the edge of the tub. His face is still too serious, and that’s partially her doing, but his eyes are warm when he meets hers. He touches his fingertips to her jaw and she feels utterly defenseless. She’s yet to decide if that’s a good feeling or not. 

“We’re partners aren’t we?” Steve asks, brow smoothing as he brushes hair behind her ear, “That means I’ve got your back when you lead the charge.”

Peggy leans into his touch. “When you say it like that,” She says, “That’s no bad thing.” 

-

“You’re not really a phone operator are you?” Angie asks, looking around the living room before taking a seat at the end of the sofa. 

Peggy leans against the counter top, waits for the kettle to go off, “Nothing too exciting I assure you. Most days it feels like all I do is fetch coffee.”

Angie laughs as she sets down a picture of Steve and Peggy on their wedding day, “No English, I get coffee all day. You—I’m probably not even allowed to know what you do unless I want to be swimming with the fishes.”

Peggy’s laughter borders on a cackle. “I work for the government Angie, not the mafia.”

Angie picks up another picture (James and Steve standing outside a church on their confirmation day. Steve’s dress shirt is too large in the shoulders. “Bucky loaned it to me. Couldn’t fill it out quiet as well as he did.”), taps her nail to the glass. “He really the genuine artifact?” 

It’s the closest she’s ever come to asking about Steve, even here, standing in their living room with a picture of the Howling Commandos by the front door, Steve dressed in his uniform front and center.

Peggy leans forward on her elbows, props her chin on her interlaced fingers. “I’m afraid he is.”

-

He has no scars now but he points out the places they used to be. “Bucky dared me to jump a fence when we were kids, didn’t know there was a broken bottle on the other side.” She traces the curve of his knee, the skin smooth beneath her fingertips. “The look on his face when he dragged me home—” Steve huffs a quiet laugh, “It was priceless. I think he was more scared of my mom than I was.”

Steve doesn’t have any pictures of his mother or father and only the one of Bucky from before the war. It’s the one he displays on the end table in their living room, though there are plenty more to choose from. Dozens and dozens of pictures of the Howling Commandos standing shoulder to shoulder on the front lines. 

He outlines the circumference of the scar on her shoulder, the slightly sunken skin where the wound healed. “That’s because you’ve never known what’s good for you.” She says lightly, laying back and stretching out alongside him. He slips his arm under her shoulders and Peggy wiggles lower, rests her cheek on his bicep.

“I’ve got some idea.” He grins, though there’s a sadness that lingers in his eyes. She didn’t know Sergeant Barnes as well as she came to know some of the others in his platoon. That night in London Steve had told her stories of what it was like to grow up alongside him, how he’d been Steve’s family for as long as Steve could remember. She can’t imagine what it would be like, to have those final moments with someone before they slip through your fingers. To have to carry that responsibility and guilt every day. 

“What other youthful misadventures did you get yourself into?” She asks, turning more fully onto her stomach so she can rest her chin on his chest. He strokes his fingers over her back, scratches lightly at it through the material of her sleeping chemise. 

Steve looks up at the ceiling, quiet for a moment. “Did I ever tell you about the time he made me ride the Cyclone at Coney Island so many times I threw up?”

Peggy snorts. “No. I don’t think you’ve told me that one.”

Steve smiles at her. “Well then…”

-

On their first anniversary they go dancing. It’s not actually something they do often nowadays. There had been a time, when the war had first ended and they both found themselves with a night to spare, when they would seek out the rowdiest dance hall and get lost in the crowd. Steve had been hopeless the first few times, but the music had been so boisterous it bordered on chaotic, the hall choked with excitement that it was hard to care if he missed a step or turned her too quickly. It had just been enough to be there with him, laughing and stumbling their way through a dance. 

Peggy buys a new dress for the occasion, something airy and light in a navy blue so dark it could be mistaken for black, rolls her hair into a chignon and dabs perfume on the side of her neck. She feels giddy almost, getting ready in their bedroom, watching Steve secure cufflinks at his wrists, smooths her palm down the length of his tie. Steve’s hands settle at her waist, pull her closer. He towers over her more than usual as she stands there in just her stockings, her shoes still waiting for her at the foot of the bed. She kisses him leisurely before pulling away to go back to her vanity, carefully selects her brightest shade of red for her lips. 

The club is bustling when they arrive, the band in full swing. “May I have this dance?” Steve asks, offering her his hand, and Peggy laughs, lets him lead her out on to the dance floor. His hand is warm through the thin fabric of her dress, spans her lower back and holds her securely as they move. They’ve had practice enough for him to keep pace, though their moves aren’t nearly as showy as some of the other couples on the floor. 

They clap when the song comes to a close and the band transitions into the next, keep dancing until Peggy needs to catch her breath. 

Steve excuses himself at the bar, leaves Peggy sipping at her whiskey, watching the crowd. Steve’s easy to pick out of most crowds, even those as rowdy as this one. She smiles at him from across the room and he salutes her before making his way to the bandleader. She sees the exact moment the man recognizes Steve, the whites of his eyes growing exponentially even as Steve shouts something over the music. 

“What was that all about?” Peggy asks when Steve is back at her side, and he grins at her, finishes his own drink while the band plays out the rest of the song. 

The next song begins with a gentle plink of the piano keys followed by the rich, honeyed sound of the singer’s voice. “I asked the band to play us something slow.” Steve says softly, his early bravado replaced by something else, earnest and careful that reminds Peggy of him in the back seat of a cab, still searching for a partner. 

She kisses him, because if Steve doesn’t mind the lipstick than neither will she, “I’ve married a very foolish man haven’t I?”

“Yeah, but you knew that going in. So really you’ve got no excuse.”

Peggy takes his face in her hands. “No dear, whatever shall I do now?”

Steve’s smile could probably shame the sun out of the sky. “Guess you’re just gonna have to suck it up for the long haul.” Steve’s grin breaks beneath her lips when she rises to her toes to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“I suppose you’ll do.” She says, taking his hands in hers and squeezing them once before she leads them out to the rest of the couples dancing. 

Steve spins her once, and Peggy’s laughter is drowned out by the swell of brass instruments, her skirt flaring out in a circle about her legs as Steve pulls her back in with a twirl.

She settles against him, his chest warm against her own, his fingers splayed across her lower back, his eyes intent on her face. Tonight he leads them through the steps and Peggy is content to rest her head on his shoulder and let him guide her through the steps, slow and measured. Her partner. 

The band plays on. 

-

The End

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever have an hour to spare try googling 1940s feminine hygiene products. That scene was, thankfully, cut for time from the final draft of this fic. 
> 
> That said, I also did loads of research on era clothing but you're welcome to imagine the characters in whatever you like. 
> 
> The title comes from It's Been A Long, Long Time by Henry James.


End file.
